I was fifteen years old when the clearly defined edges of the pool defied me. It was a dreary Ohio winter in 1974, and I was a sophomore. Snow drifted in blankets hugging the high school auditorium where the indoor Olympic-size pool was housed. It was time for the Swimming Unit in sixth period PE class. Chlorine smoldered under the big dome, and misty hot steam rose up to greet the rafters. I loved to swim especially during the last period of the day. This meant that we girls could go home with careless damp hair and raccoon eyes. Sixth period PE meant open swimming for those of us skilled in the water. We were free from competition, counting scores and remembering rules. It felt like summer was upon us once again. It felt like those hot lazy afternoons in neighborhood pools where "You're it!" could be called without warning. And "Marco" would rise up from the chlorine seeking a tag. And "Polo" echoed the escape.

The swim team girls stretched out three lane markers and did practice laps. The other kids dove and breached in the deep end careful to tug at the bottoms of their Speedos. I filled my lungs with air and dove down to tag the elusive pool drain in the far away bottom. Once successful I would allow my body to relax and slowly float to the surface. I was enveloped in the warm cocoon of water, weightless and wonderful, seconds before bursting onto the surface for a grateful breath. There were at least thirty teenagers in the pool that day. Between us, we made waves that thundered up and laughed into the troughs around the water's edge. Water roiled up and crashed in the middle of the pool; the great washer was set on agitate. From the deep end, despite the self-indulgent chaos, the pool looked to me like a safe ocean with no-fail borders. One could swim and play easily, taking refuge within generous walls.

Our instructor was a twenty-five-year teaching veteran. She posted a student lifeguard in the metal bleachers and held a small class for the dog paddlers and rookie swimmers. They circled around her, kicking and taking in deep breaths, practicing how to float and execute choppy overhanded strokes. Some still clung to the safety of the sides; their faces got smacked by the turbulent water. I have a vague picture of Valerie, an unpopular outcast girl, clinging to the lip of the pool moving hand over hand towards the deep end until her feet could no longer touch the smooth blue-tiled bottom. Then, as if seeking an open window in a high-rise, she scaled back to the safety of the shallow end.

I was home before the news of her death surfaced in the community. Outraged parents stormed the school. The following week my classmates and I were interviewed by police. "I only noticed her once," I told the officer, "she was on the side of the pool holding on to the wall between the shallow and deep end," I remember no alarm on her face. She was as imperceptible as air, a shy quiet girl whom we believed held big secrets. Rumors said she was pregnant but "who could be the father?" We dared not pry.

No one noticed Valerie's body slip below the surface. Neither the instructor nor the student lifeguard was aware that the thundering water would suck her under as it licked the sides of the pool that day. Later I would imagine thousands of tons of water pressing her body down as anonymous bubbles surfaced in between the traffic of the pool. The elusive water betrayed her and gave no resistance against splayed fingers. Her wriggling body became a thicker conspirator once the lungs began to fill. We all were oblivious. Only after school was out, when a member of the swim team ran back down to the pool for pre-practice warm-up laps, was her brown body spotted on the pool floor. A nervous question was delivered, "Miss Hocking, who left the Resusci Annie doll in the water?" The answer hung frozen as the teacher fled past the locker bay down to the pool. The safety of those clearly defined edges washed away that day under the enormous pressure of water.

​

Susie Foster Hale has been writing and teaching on San Juan Island in the Pacific Northwest for over twenty years. Her work has appeared in the Shark Reef Literary Magazine and the Soundings Review. She is currently working on a collection of new essays about island life.